It's Been Awhile...

... and I've been busy. But much has happened to me since in the past month; let's see...

Went to San Diego.
Got lost in Mexico.
Got overheard.
Saw Cher.
Believed.
Pissed off the Jersey trash behind me for dancing.
Was strong enough to take them in a battle of wills.
Left happy.
Saw some stand-up.
Laughed.
Saw more stand-up.
Laughed more.
Got accosted by a drunk vet from Korea.
He was a strong kid.
Got very depressed.
Wrote a talk.
Went to Double Happiness.
Got two happinesses.
Wrote blog entry.

What's Wrong With Kansas? Part Deux

The Board of Education in Kansas has been flip-flopping over evolution since 1999, when they voted to teach creationism alongside modern evolution. That decision was reversed a few years ago when certain fundamentalist board members were replaced. Well it's back. The Panda's Thumb has great coverage of all things evolution. This is the latest from Kansas. Apparently there is going to be a hearing next month in which the Kansas Board of Education plans to fly in dozens of pseudo-scientists to testify on behalf of Intelligent Design. Can't they be doing something better with their tax dollars? Like actually teach actual students actual science?

Sometimes I want to kill.

What's Wrong With Kansas?

Or Connecticut, depending on the way you lean. As I right this, the CT State Senate is discussion the much hyped civil union bill. They've already rejected an amendment to the bill that would include language defining marriage as between a man and a woman. I know because I've been stalking them.

This is monumental because Connecticut, my blessed home state, would become the first state to enact civil union legislation without court intervention. No one can complain that the process was usurped from the elected representatives. (Well, I guess they can still complain...)

This comes on the heels of Kansas becoming the 18th state to ban same-sex marriage in a state constitution. It's interesting to see the way both processes are working. One is brave, the other cowardly. Not because of what each state is trying to do, but how they are trying to do it.

See, voting is private. You go into a little booth and make a decision and don't have to tell anyone what you decided. Legislative voting, however, is public. People can go into a little booth and vote to treat gays as less than equal citizens and no one needs to know. But if everyone had to wear little buttons on their lapels with how they voted, they'd be singing a different tune. Because no one wants to be accused of being intolerant. But with secret ballots, there's no danger of that. They don't have to back up their convictions.

Why didn't the Massachusetts legislature tackle the gay marriage issue sooner? The court gave them ample time to get the constitutional ban wagon rolling, but they sat on their asses because no one wanted to be accused of being intolerant. Every voter in Kansas who voted for this amendment should be forced to go up to a gay person, look them in the eye, and tell them that they voted to keep him or her from marrying the person that they love.

Because if you feel that strongly about marriage, you should tell the people you're affecting to their faces, and not hide anonymously behind a curtain. That's something a coward does.

UPDATE: Well the bill passed the Senate 27-9. That's fairly definitive. It should pass the House next week.

I Cannot Sit On My Heels

This morning on the bus, I was sitting behind a woman of Asian descent who was apparently studying English. The piece of paper she was reading had two columns, the first with a sentence in English, the second with a sentence in what appeared to be Chinese or Japanese. This is not all that unusual. What was unusual, however, were the sentences she was learning how to say. The first four on the list were:

That is so humiliating!
This law violates the First Amendment.
Her back was turned when she was shot.
I cannot sit on my heels.

Say what? I cannot sit on my heels? What does that even mean? And why would this woman need to learn how to say it? She might as just run around saying "I can eat glass."

Happy Third of the Month!

Time to pull out that plaid and treat yourself right. No titty bars or crap like that. No binging neither. Nope, that's not for a day like today. Today is when step back, take that deep breath, no matter what we're doing, and appreciate what God gave us. Today is the day to use the expensive facewash and walk to the store instead of taking the bus. Today is the day that you crack open that good bottle of wine you've been saving for a special occasion. Because today is the day that is the occasion that doesn't need an occasion. We shouldn't need an excuse to love ourselves but we often forget.

But not the Third of the Month. We should never forget about ourselves on the Third of the Month.

This Third of the Month, I'm going to share with you a little thought I had yesterday. As we all know, the Pope has died. I feel sad and I don't know why. I think he was a pretty good Pope. He poped during some hard times and had the purest of intentions. But I really have nothing to compare to. And that was my thought. That part of the Catholic mass where we pray "for John Paul our Pope, Edward our bishop..." etc? Well, I've gone through a bunch of bishops but I've never heard anything else there beacause I've never known any Pope other than JPII. And in a week or two, I'll never hear it again. And I thought, wow, that's weird, especially since it was the first thought that popped into my head.

Anywho. Love yourself. Because that's what the Pope wants.

Oh, and he wants us to always use moist towelettes because cleanliness is next to popeliness.

A Night With The Boys

So the ball-n-chain is away for the weekend, so last night, being Friday and all, I decided to have a night out with the boys. You know, engage in despicable debauchery and wake up the next morning in shame and disgust. This was after an afternoon of trying to find my house from space, so I felt that I deserved some sort of unencumbered fun. Of course, as luck would have it I was miserably hungover from the night before so I remained sleepy the whole evening.

Suffice it to say, the evening in question began by meeting up with Stan and Mick (their names have been changed to protect them from possible Internet scandal) at a wine shop in Gramercy to taste Chianti Classicos, so right off the bat our evening is shaping up to be, um, semi-debaucherous? We did give the snooty sommelier a nasty look when he was being petulant.

We then traveled a few blocks downtown to go to Ye Olde Bar or something like that, one of the oldest bars in the city, where we had burgers and beer and talked about the Pope. We were also the youngest people there. After my meal, I just felt sleepier. So we went to the Flatiron Lounge and drank fruity, overpriced, turn-of-the-century cocktails in a classic 20s New York atmosphere. I spent the entire time ogling one of the waiters without my partners in crime noticing (I think) while we talked about how fruity our drinks were and what a pussy Stan was for not finishing his because it was too strong.

We then cabbed it down to the Lower East side to just miss a band playing at Arlene's Grocery. I felt a little hipper, even though I was wearing a fuchsia gingham shirt. I guess it's OK, because Stan was dressed like a bank teller and Mick looked like he'd been run over by a Kenneth Cole outlet store truck (sorry, dude, I just never liked that sweater; I think it's the collar). We talked about sex while listening to the current band make up for lack of talent and profundity with sound level and guitar rape.

It was then that it began to rain. Physically and metaphorically. That was when Stan decided we needed to go to a strip club. I'm always up for a little whoring with my drinking, but I wasn't about to pay $40 to get into Scores so I could be snubbed by a bunch of strippers I couldn't give a shit about looking at anyway. But I hadn't seen a breast since San Antonio so, of course, I was game. We decided to tourist out and go to where Seventh Avenue meets Broadway.

We told the cabby to take us to "Times Square". Around 43rd St. we told him that was fine. He politely explained to us that Times Square went from 42nd St. up to 47th. "We know," I said indignantly, "we live here."

So the three of us wandered around Times Square for a bit, trying to find the right place to go, while making up our personalities. We were from Dayton, Ohio, in for work. Stan was a QA manager, Mick was a marketing associate (I think) and I was a project manager. I was the married one looking for a good time.

Not sure of where to go, we chose a small gentleman's lounge right off Broadway. (If by "gentleman's lounge you mean "bordello", then yes). It cost us ten bucks apiece to get in. When Mick ordered a whiskey, we were told they only had light beer, juice and soda. Uh-huh. We were three of five men in this place, to about a dozen women. All of whom where aggressive saleswomen as well as aggressive pole dancers, which was amazing because the music was vaguely minimalistic hip-hop and not very danceable. Although I guess straddling a pole and swinging around it with your panties halfway towards your ankles doesn't really require that much rhythm.

I would have gladly taken a lap dance, if only for old times sake (oh Crazy Horse II, how I miss thee!) except they didn't do that. They did, however, give private shows. $100 for 20 minutes. 40% tip to the girl. Unless you wanted full service. Mick told me the word "happy ending" was used when he was being given the gritty details. Well, I don't know about that but I do know that I felt dirty. Very very very dirty. And I've done some dirty things. Hell, a good chunk of the country thinks I do dirty things every day. But this, oh this was new levels of dirty. I didn't even do anything and I felt dirty. And slightly nauseous. When we fled, Stan tried to cover for us saying that I was getting nervous about my wife. Like the hook-- I mean strippers -- cared. Oh Stan. So lovable with his perfect synergy of shame and shamelessness.

We couldn't go home after being that dirty; we had to clean off, physically and metaphorically. So we went to Tonic on Times Square, the saddest bar in the world. It could very well have been smack in the middle of Dayton, OH, thinking it was a trendy New York City bar. We drank watery G&Ts and watched clueless tourists taking pictures of each other wearing last year's guido shirts with disposable cameras. Let me put it this way, the second floor was closed for a private party for the auto show.

I was in bed by 2. After a very hot, very anti-bacterial soapy shower. I haven't had a proper confession in over 5 years but I think it's time to do some penance. Lots and lots of penance.